Unholier Than Thou
by Dromiceius
Summary: Five necromancers are bound together under desperate circumstances to restore balance to sanctuary. Not all who follow The Way will reach its end.
1. Preface Chapter 1: Nightbreak

**Preface**

After some eight months of build-up, I've hit my "cheese limit break" and need to unleash a hellstorm of fanfiction upon the internet. I blame _Wolf Brother._

This story (if you're the type who likes to know what they're getting into when they look at a fic) is slated to be less than 100,000 words, and to be completed sometime before the earth is vaporized by the sun, the crack of doom, etc. I'm conceiving it as a Japanese style, "youngster goes on an adventure and meets interesting people" type story, with darker overtones.

**Chapter One - Nightbreak**

The camp was quietly rousing itself as the five priests of Rathma attended to their various duties in their politely impersonal way. Arram Nightblade, the wizened leader of the camp was foremost in packing their belongings, as one of the younger members of the priesthood, Nyelun Viltower, was scouting ahead.

All was going according to the routine, as it had for the six previous nights of the journey. The group was becoming increasingly vigilant, corresponding with the probability of their facing a roving pack of demons in the continuing trek northwest through the plains of Khanduras.

One of the group, however, had other concerns than these.

"Insolent wretch! You dare speak so to like of Clegorn Wraithwind?!"

The apple-cheeked and somewhat overfed boy of 12 had more lip than brain, as the rest of the Murder was well aware. The so-called 'Wraithwind' had adopted an Agnoma several years earlier than good taste would dictate in necromancer society. Having yet to grapple with many of the fundamental precepts one must learn prior to their coming of age or rite of rebirth, he had not yet earned his own name to use among the necromancers proper. His unruly behavior remained largely unchecked by his elders however, as they had more important things to worry about than a petulant brat getting out of line.

Zahara Bonerend, an adept of respectable skill and seven years his elder, was not at all inclined to take that kind of crap from a witless neophyte. Exhausted from a long, sleepless day of study, she regarded the younger boy contemptuously, thinking of a suitable retort. Her gaunt figure and usual pallid complexion were exaggerated by fatigue, lending her a fearsome (if unbecoming) aspect. Moreover, the sneer she wore belied her actual thoughts and motives regarding the boy- she was indeed becoming a fine specimen of the all too rare priestess of Rathma.

"Okay." She sighed heavily. "First of all, I didn't address you. Second, try raising a skeleton without it trying to kill you before you go threatening anyone. Third, if you ever grow a brain, you'll learn that even if you were able to hold your own in battle, being a loudmouthed little barbarian will still get you killed in the real world."

She walked toward her tent on the other side of the camp muttering about common sense and gesticulating to the sky, as if to invoke the wrath of the heavens upon young Wraithwind, who was now obliged to bother someone else.

Zahara disappeared behind the flap of her tent to change into the last of her fresh linen, over which she donned her adept's vest, made of studded leather from the skin of a Hell Bovine. As the ceremony goes, the adept herself must kill the bovine for it to be skinned, thus signifying the aspirant's transcendence of the neophyte rank. It is easily the most significant rite of passage in a necromancer's life, and generally the last until extreme old age.

Her fingers played along the steel edging on the shoulder pads and her mind wandered back to the battle. How chillingly close she had come to being gored and hewn by that monstrous, bipedal cow. Her breath came in tight gasps as she recalled in nightmarish detail every aspect of that battle. The earth shaking as the bovine charged her, raising its halberd in its misshapen hooves, that guttural lowing that still resonated in her ears, and the frenzied rage in its eyes. She froze. What could she do against such a beast? It was all over.

"Zahara?" It was Wraithwind, looking the very image of penitence (despite having just entered a woman's tent during the morning routine without first announcing himself.)

She cocked an eyebrow and raised her chin imperiously, eyeing him with mock distrust before addressing him. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry for what I said before. It was mean, and I didn't mean it at all."

In a heartbeat, she caught her breath and her countenance unconsciously softened, but couldn't put aside thoughts of mortal combat, the death struggle, and all the things the Murder would soon face in this foreign country. She approached the lad who, despite being more than half her height, still seemed disturbingly younger than he actually was.

"And you promise not to act like a smelly barbarian anymore?"

"I won't. I'm really sorry," he reiterated.

Her eyes welled with bittersweet tears, at once touched by the saccharine simplicity of the moment, and filled with dread at what was yet to come.

Not knowing what else to say, Zahara mussed the silvery bowl of hair on the boy's downcast head.

"I'm sorry, too." 


	2. Chapter 2: High Moon

A/N: LMAO! 20 hits in a week!? I think I'd better change my summary to something less contemptible.

The reek of cheese has begun to irritate my olfactory nodes; I may begin taking this fic a bit more seriously... or rather, less like a parody of itself/social experiment. It's still a learning endeavor for me, and hopefully enjoyable for you, so whatever your opinion of the work so far, reviews are welcome.

**Chapter 2 - High Moon**

The Murder had journeyed some distance toward their eventual goal: the monastery of the Order of the Sightless Eye. They expected no welcome there, of course, as the Sisters held no particular affinity for the disciples of Rathma. They nevertheless pressed on, for such was the importance of their mission: to reach the pass of the Khanduri mountains, and travel onward to Lut Gholein. Their ultimate goal, they thought, was to defeat Diablo and return the world from its defilement at the hands of the Prime Evil, back to the Way of All Things. 

Arram Nightblade, the leader of the Murder stood with his arms crossed at a fork in the dirt road, looking through weary eyes at the darkness leading down both paths.

"Traveling with children." The old man shook his head, groaning softly in his rasping voice. "I don't know why I agreed to lead this expedition, nor why the council thought well of sending children- children who haven't attained so much as control over inanimate clay- into battle against this... this arch-fiend."

His interlocutor and lieutenant, Roth Grimward, stood next to him tall and proud like a statue. Also like a statue, he stared out defiantly against the world with unseeing eyes- a fact which a careful observer might have gleaned from the great helm he wore. Solidly built of iron and bearing extensive tracery of ornate symbols, it obscured his entire face, save for a pair of hard, frowning lips. He spoke tersely, and with fortitude. "We are none of us particularly fit for battle, lord."

Arram grinned. He had spent his career working alone, as necromancers generally do, but the frank demeanor of this steel-plated man- a man under whose armor seemed to lay nothing but layers of even harder granite- was refreshing from the self-serving dissimulation of most of their kind.

He replied at length, "yes, I am decrepit, the boy and the girl are insipid, and your own magic is similarly limited." His tone reached an almost apologetic lilt on mentioning Grimward's blindness, knowing that the grief of losing his vision would still be fresh in the man's mind. Or at least, it would be in the mind of any man on less intimate terms with the Great Cycle of Being. Indeed, there were few, even among the priesthood, who could demonstrate through their own actions such a thorough understanding of life, and of that which lies beyond. Thus, Nightblade knew to speak his mind freely when in the company of his lieutenant.

"We will succeed, nevertheless," Grimward replied, with sustained resolution. A sardonic half-grin crept onto Arram's colorless lips, and he might have uttered something sententious, had not a boisterous call from over the next hill abstracted their attention. The indiscernible salutation echoed through the still air of the warm, summery night, and the two were soon joined by Nyelun Viltower, a man of 22, who by his muscular build could easily be mistaken for a knight of Zakarum or even a highlander from the north, if not for his adept's vest and the papery skin underneath. He was broad-shouldered, full of vitality, with a mane of white hair running back along his head and down to his shoulderblades. His stride was light and easy, unlike his two middle-aged commanders, who seemed to lumber along like zombies when they were next to him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, boy," said Nightblade good-naturedly as they resumed the journey. 

"I've spied a fairly large encampment a league beyond the bridge crossing the river after the next couple of hills."

"An encampment? Of what?"

"It's hard to tell by moonlight."

"Deduce, lad," Grimwald interpolated. "What could you ascertain about the encampment?"

The youth thought for a moment. "Whomever built it seems to have done so in a hurry. It's rather shabbily constructed."

"...And yet you can discern the work of human hands, and not those of demons?"

"Demons? Faith, I certainly hope not," Viltower returned, in his distinctively flippant and oafish manner. "But, we'll see when we get there, won't we?"

Grimwald nodded, giving a slight grunt of acknowledgement and no doubt rolling his eyes behind his iron mask.

Bringing up the rear of the group, Zahara and Clegorn trudged listlessly along, the former having spent what should have been her sleeping hours in study, and the latter being unaccustomed to walking for an entire night. Zahara pretended to examine the wall of trees and shrubbery, as if she hadn't noticed Nyelun's appreciative sideways glances from across the narrow road.

Yes, even Grimward could see what was going on.

She brushed a wave of dark hair over her reddening cheek before impulsively returning the glance, and found him engrossed with counting a sachel of four or five throwing knives, still grinning mischievously. and suddenly found herself again struck in the heart, as she had been in the tent with Clegorn. A sudden dread for the group, which she realized she was becoming attached to.

The group remained silent but for the clinking of metal and the clomping of boots against firm, dry earth until they reached the bridge crossing the river. The silhouette of a square wall of logs all sharpened at the ends, loomed in the distance like a forest of spearheads. 

Squinting out into the darkness, Arram broke the silence. "Can't make out much from here."

Nyelun concurred in the sobriety demanded by the situation. "Yes, it could be anything in there. We'll need a closer look. Shall I go ahead?" 

"No," the old man replied thoughtfully. "It looks too expansive to have been built by monsters. The only creatures in the area industrious enough to have made the attempt are goatmen, and they're all nomads."

Zahara noticed a figure flitting out of the trees, sprinting toward the encampment. Her eyes could make out the figure of a young woman holding a bow. 

"I think we've been spotted. Do you see that shape there?" She pointed the figure out.

Nightblade made a sound like gas escaping from an exhumed corpse. "Well, we might as well go there to greet them peaceably, rather than move on paranoid of an attack that might not be coming. This will likely be a bloody mess either way."


End file.
